it's driving me crazy :: (five stages of loss and grief)
by Sadie Winchester
Summary: [au]: i didn't think much of it then, but it's starting to all make sense. ;; promise me some dignity if i were to stand and die here. :: percy/zoë. :: written for my favorite jerk, anaklusmos14. [1/2]


**it's driving me crazy :: (five stages of loss and grief)  
...**  
_[au]: i didn't think much of it then, but it's starting to all make sense. ;; promise me some dignity if i were to stand and die here. :: percy/zoë. :: written for my favorite jerk, anaklusmos14._

**Songs To Listen To**: Remembering Sunday [All Time Low], Miserable At Best [Mayday Parade], I Hate Everything About You [Three Days Grace].

**-x- **

_**Forgive me, I'm trying to find, my calling, I'm calling at night **__  
_  
_When we look at the sky, it's not mine, but I want it _

**-x-**

**|| DENIAL and ISOLATION. || **

Running a hand through his already untidy hair, he sighed in almost-defeat. Days had gone by, yet he refused to acknowledge the reality. That would mean giving up, and he was never one to concede defeat, despite the fact that his efforts were gone to waste.

He hadn't _slept_ in days; he hadn't stopped _drinking_ in days.

He brought the bottle up to his lips once more and gulped down his drink wretchedly. His blood-shot eyes were focused on the dark sky with its luminous twinkling stars. The cool zephyr swept through his dark hair and caressed his skin softly, which made him slightly tremble.

His throat was croaky from screaming and it burned every time that he drank, but he didn't give a damn. That's all he seemed to do nowadays; drink and sleep. He hadn't gone out ever since the devastating news had reached his ears and had torn him from inside out until he could no longer utter a single word in fear of doing something irrational.

Sea-green eyes searched the dark and lonely night for a sign, something that told him that everyone had been wrong, some evidence that he was mistaken. His attempts were always in vain but he did always overlook the obvious.

After a while, he closed his eyes and breathed in slowly, trying to compose himself. He blinked away the tears that had escaped, but other than that, he didn't have the courage to make a sound in fear of disrupting the serene night.

He bit his bottom lip almost painfully. Then, for the first time in three days, he spoke. The words that poured from his mouth - the ones that he whispered to the night - were incomprehensible as tears began to pool at the corners of his eyes and this time, he didn't bother to blink them away. He permitted them to keep running down his cheeks until they plunged to the ground and a set of new ones came by. His voice was strained and slowly, the words began to fade into the breeze and only the stars were there to witness as he lost control of himself and wore himself down with his seemingly eternal cries of grief and despondency, and only his thoughts were the ones to placate yet agonize him.

He put his back to the glass door that separated his bedroom and balcony and gradually slid down it. He brought his legs in front of him and placed his forehead against his knees, the tears didn't want to stop, her voice didn't want to go away - it would ceaselessly haunt his memories, fuel his night terrors and cause him many restless nights filled with self-loathing.

On the first day, - he recalled that late afternoon with great detail - he had difficulty wrapping his head around the bitter and hard truth, he had refused to face the facts that were clearly there, he didn't want to believe it. She wouldn't do that, not her, never her.

"_Please don't cry, I know you're trying your hardest, please don't cry, don't cry." _

Day two was no better than the first. He hid in his room to steer clear of the piteous looks, the expressions of vacant consolation and supposed words of understanding that wasn't even there and only wounded him more. He didn't want those looks or the words because he knew that she would come back, she _had _to come back to him. She wouldn't do that to him, never.

He had never been much of a believer, but at that point, he would have done anything to get her back that instant. That's when he began to pray for a miracle, but deep in his mind, he knew that his prayers fell on deaf ears and so his sobs were always hushed because no matter how much he prayed, a voice whispered in his ear that she would _never_ come back - it was no use wasting his breath on worthless, pleading and desperate words - but he pushed that voice away and continued to implore to a greater force to help him.

The tears that were frantic to be set free, were held back until he was alone with his own thoughts and drowning his unhappiness with a swing of his many drinks those nights. That was when he could feign that he wasn't unaccompanied that night and that she was next to him, listening to him recall their time together.

By the third night when he had run out of alcohol, he reached for his phone and scrolled through his contacts, stopping at her name and stared at it - her number, her photo - and pressed the green 'call' button, then placed the phone on his ear, closing his eyes as the phone rang on the other line. It rang thrice before it was abruptly cut off and the call went straight to voicemail. He tried calling two more times before he grew tired of hearing the same thing over and over again.

"_The number that you are calling is not available at this moment; please leave a message after the tone -" _

He hung up and threw his phone across the room in anger, in spite of his knowledge that there wouldn't be anyone to pick up on the other line, where it crashed against the wall and the glass screen shattered to pieces. He curled up in a ball on his bed but didn't let loose of a single tear. He was tired of crying, he was tired of feeling so weak, so fragile like glass.

But he couldn't accept it; he told himself that she was _not _gone and she _was _going to return to him someday. She left him crying with his heart broken into an irreparable jumble of a thousand, damaged pieces but when she returned to him, everything would be all right; everything would be forgiven and forgotten.

The moonlight slashed through his bedroom window and the glass terrace door, enlightening part of his room in silver. The stars were able to be seen from his untidy bed, and as he stared at the star-littered sky, he thought that compared to her eyes, nothing shone quite as bright.

She and those stars had a lot in common; they were a thousand miles away from him, so very far away, so out of his reach - out of his grasp. He breathed in calmly and bit the inside of his right cheek, contemplating on his next decision.

He knew that he was exhausted of feeling like shit and being utterly alone, but he didn't want to face the rest of the world just yet. Maybe he should wait for her to return

Yeah, he would do just that, no matter how long he would have to wait.

**-x- **

_**I didn't think much of it then, but it's starting to all make sense **_

_Only when I stop to think about it, I hate everything about you _

**-x- **

**ANGER. **

His decision only lasted one single day, as it was enough time for him to sober up for good, caused by the incessant drinking, previously, and when remorse and self-hatred had fled from his mind, rage had came barging in.

He felt anger towards everyone at fault, irritation towards her for being a coward and deciding to run away from her troubles instead of facing them bravely, resentment towards himself for not being good enough for her and for not becoming aware of the signs.

He stared at his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He noticed how bags had formed under his now-sunken eyes, how his eyes were a spiteful, venomous green instead of their usual blithe and gleaming color, and how they were rimmed scarlet as consequence of his pathetic weeping. He noticed how his skin had become an ashen color and when he took off his repulsive, grimy shirt, he saw how his bones were starting to become noticeable from his lack of food consumption. He wrinkled his nose as he stared at his mirror image a second longer, before deciding that he had enough of staring at his feeble self and began to take off his pants.

He proceeded to hop in the shower, his rigid muscles instantaneously relaxing while his mind cleared as the warm water washed over him and he felt as if the unsoiled water swept away his troubles and washed down the drain along with the unclean water.

If only it were that simple.

He washed his body with a brand new body soap and threaded his fingers through his tangled hair, scrubbing it with his fingers covered in shampoo. He closed his eyes and stood immobile; the sound of the falling water colliding against his skin soothed him. He felt tranquil, too peaceful, but he didn't put much thought to it, and instead, rinsed his hair and the rest of his body slowly. He raked his too long fingernails against his skin trying to get any remaining filth off of him - and then he couldn't stop. He wasn't itchy, but he kept scratching at his skin, going from softly to a near animalistic pace, until it tore and blood began to leak from his arms and streamed down his body, down the drain; just like the soiled water, just like his metaphorical problems.

The blood didn't faze him, so he disregarded it.

He turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, his feet slapping against the cold tiles but he didn't even flinch. It was as if he felt nothing, he was numb. The blood continued to trickle from his torn skin but he continued to walk as if he didn't notice it at all. He stepped out of the bathroom, not bothering to dry himself and get dressed or even look at his newly cleaned reflection in the foggy mirror, and stopped in front of his bedside table where there was a picture of her resting on top of it.

She was smiling in the picture, joyfully, and it was a bitter reminder of what he had lost and it just made the ache that hadn't been there for hours, intensify. His lips twisted into a nasty scowl and he grasped the framed photograph. He gazed at her smile for a second or two, before he hurled it to the opposite wall.

The impact made much more noise than he had anticipated in the stillness of his vacant apartment. He allowed himself to cringe but, apart from that, he didn't move again. His eyes were bare of emotion as was his body of garments.

He didn't know how long he had stood there, breathing roughly with his fists clenched, his nails digging into his palm, making half moon shapes on his skin and blood tracing them lightly. The cold air from his air conditioner made goose bumps rise on his skin and he shivered at the freezing air and his torn skin stung slightly.

He calmly walked towards his dresser pushed against the wall where the photograph had shattered; he stepped around the shattered glass carefully, and took out a folded black t-shirt along with gray boxers and dark blue gym shorts. He slipped the clothes on unhurriedly, taking no notice of how his still bleeding arms tarnished the fresh clothes with his scarlet blood.

Once he was fully dressed, he cocked his head to the side while he looked into the eyes of his reflection in his dresser mirror. He no longer looked so edgy and the dark bags under his eyes from sleepless nights were gradually vanishing. His lips were set in a thin line and his expression was unbiased; there were no signs of his earlier fury on his face, but in the within, he was seething and his fingers ached to be put to use, they wanted to grasp something more and continue to fling things around. He controlled himself. For now.

Impassive green eyes focused on the afternoon sky visible from his standing position and he felt the necessity to walk out to his balcony; an overwhelming need to be touched by the sunlight and breathe in fresh air washed over him and the next thing he knew, he had his elbows propped up on top of the railing of the short, protective barriers that bordered his balcony to prevent him from falling.

(He instinctively wondered how much damage he would cause to himself if he were to jump).

His eyes looked out to the empty streets of his apartment neighborhood. He lived in New York, sure, but that was private residence, where he lived.

It was too early for the stars to be out, but he could spot a part of the moon peeking from behind a cloud and for the first time in a week, he smiled. Zoë had loved this part of the day the most, the few hours before the moon goddess - as she had once said - took over her brother's shift and conquered the hours of darkness.

His scowl returned in an instant and he glared at the moon with intense hatred in his eyes. He stalked back into his room and slammed the glass doors shut, looking for something that would cause damage. His eyes locked on the lamp placed on top of his bedside table and he wrapped his fingers around the long grip, and then snatched it from the table vehemently. With a scowl still on his lips, he threw it at the glass door; successfully break the lamp and glass.

Percy Jackson was sure that his neighbors downstairs and across the hall would hear the commotion, but adrenaline pumped in his veins and the need to throw something else, to break another thing to pieces just like _she _had broken his heart and stomped all over it with her selfish actions, had taken over him and he couldn't control himself, he didn't want to deny himself the satisfaction.

He needed to grasp the feeling of absolute control and the only way he could display domination was to break as many things as he could. He remembered one of his recent dreams that had him feeling intense satisfaction but remorse at the same time.

He remembered standing over her beaten body. He had grinned all while staring at her without blinking. He could see her skin turn pallid from blood loss and he could still hear her pained whimpers echo in his ears when his dream self held the knife in his hand - the immeasurable, perverse contentment that he had felt when he had her life in his hands, when he could control whether she lived or she would breathe her last breath at his mercy - and had he felt so much like God.

Barely restrained rage gradually began to seep out as he continued to smash more of his possessions, until only one of her pictures was left. Well, it was a picture of the two of them on their two year anniversary.

He ripped it to pieces.

By the time that the first stars began to show, his room was trashed completely and he held a knife in his hands, twirling the blade in between his fingers skillfully while his mind was somewhere else, contemplating on what to do next. The anger was still there, though.

His eyes were once again a spiteful green and his jaw was clenched. He threw the knife at the door of his bedroom as it opened and a grunt of pain was heard.

Percy Jackson snapped out of his thoughts at once.

A/N: um, sorry if this is shitty and/or doesn't make sense. I also didn't edit this completely, so I apologize. I was working on the rest of this, but somehow I lost it and have to start over with the three remaining stages. I might have cried a bit when I couldn't find the rest. It all just went to shit.

Anyway, I hope you like it so far. Now, I shall get back to it.


End file.
